


Quite Contrary

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen, Language, M/M, mild slash.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: a day in the life of Lancelot.





	Quite Contrary

**Author's Note:**

> for [](https://fanfic100.livejournal.com/profile)[fanfic100](https://fanfic100.livejournal.com/). Prompt [#34](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%2334), _not enough_.

Lancelot began his day as he usually did; this time, however, when he rolled over, he found himself alone and unkempt, his hair a mess and his body sore from the night’s efforts.

“Damn girl,” he groused, rising from his bed. He just as quickly fell flat to his knees – his boots were right next to the small mattress. He bit his lip and shut his eyes, determined not to start this day with a curse and a sorry mood. He’d told Arthur he’d take care of the inventory of weapons stock – perhaps in a drunken haze, but he had agreed to it – and thus, he was to make his way to the armory post haste.

He sucked in a breath, counted to ten, and rose off his knees. He dressed quickly and ran fingers through his curls, checking the piece of electrum he had on his dresser perfunctorily and then hustled out of his quarters, the door almost catching his heel as he shut it.

*

Lancelot squinted as he made his way into the yard; too many people were already awake, and the noise the common folk were producing was deafening at this hour of the morning. Lancelot shoved passed a few barmaids; he wasn’t in the mood for trivial conversation, despite his activities the previous night.  His bed had been boring and empty for far too long, and if he had to be the one to do something about it, well then, so be it.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to Arthur since their disastrous sparring session yesterday – and Lancelot was happy to keep it that way. For now. Until his hips and back stopped aching and his brain was awake enough to be able to form smart words and the witty retorts he knew he’d need when he saw Arthur.

The armory was stuffed full of shit – and pissy knights who were ostensibly there to help him. And one Roman commander, who was sitting on the desk Lancelot was supposed to use, and looking a bit too smug for Lancelot’s taste.

“Castus,” he said as jovially as he could. “Care to get out of my way and let me do this odious job by myself as you requested?”

Arthur’s brows raised briefly; he crossed his arms but got off the desk. “I finished my meeting early,” he said. “I thought you’d like some extra help.”

Lancelot snorted as he rooted around in the drawers of the desk, pulling out vellum and stylus’ and enough ink for the task at hand. “I have enough help, I’d wager,” he jerked his chin toward the hulking form of Dagonet and the willowy one of Galahad. Neither of the men looked happy to be there. Not that Dagonet’s expression changed much. 

“Get to it!” Lancelot shouted at them in their native tongue, and both men turned, _slowly_ , and began sorting through the first pile of arrows.

Lancelot dropped vellum and writing implements next to Dag, and climbed over a stack of broken trebuchets as he made his way to his stash of spears. He groaned inwardly when Arthur doggedly followed him.

Lancelot didn’t speak for a while; he counted spears and Arthur ticked the numbers off on the vellum. After a time, Lancelot looked up and sighed. Arthur finished the column he was working on, and met Lancelot’s gaze.

“What did you do last night?”

Lancelot cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips. He slid over and started the next set of spears. Arthur trailed him.

“Not much. Drank, agreed to do this,” he said, his tone dry. “Spent an agreeable amount of time with that new girl of Vanora’s.” He added the last thing as if it were something to throw away.

Arthur looked up from his notes, and a quick frown crossed his craggy face. “Hm. I hope you were sufficiently distracted?”

“From what? The nothing that’s been going on in my bed?”  Lancelot’s mouth compressed into a thin line. He shook his head. “Forget it, Arthur. Let’s just get this done so I can go see Ras and work out my headache _away_ from numbers and dusty weapons.”

_And from you._

He didn’t voice that thought, but when next he looked up at Arthur when they’d moved on to longbows, the commander seemed deep in thought, his green eyes slightly unfocused, his face drawn in and dark.

*

The stables were relatively empty of knights and squires, and Lancelot sighed as he entered the stall that held his black, Ras.  He handed the horse a nice, red apple that Tristan surely wouldn’t miss. He squinted at the horse, and bit at his lower lip.  “You and I are alike, yes? Uncomplicated souls, who want nothing more than to be left alone to wait out the rest of our days in this pisshole. Without annoyingly righteous and full of themselves Roman commanders following us around like dogs.”  Ras eyed Lancelot, and whinnied. Lancelot pushed on the horse’s nose, and snorted. “Keep your opinion to yourself. Otherwise, you can stay in here all day, as far as I’m concerned.”

Another look from the animal, and Lancelot gave in. He rested his arms around Ras’ neck, and lay his forehead on the black’s shoulder. “I hate him,” he whispered.

No smart answer from the horse, this time.

*

The sky clouded over as Lancelot was riding back from the southwestern side of the Wall; his patrol with Bors having been relatively easy and boring. There was one small village scuffle that they’d smothered, and then not much else besides leaves and trees and the wind that kept them constantly chilled.  Bors had ridden off when he’d caught sight of Dagonet practicing in the ring; Lancelot had decided he’d go ride a bit more.

When the rain started, he cursed and sneezed and pulled the hood of his cloak up to cover his already wet hair. The torches from the garrison wall were burning in the distance, and he could discern a bit of smoke as the rain tried to put the fires out.

“What do you think?” he asked Ras. The horse nickered and bobbed his head. Just as Lancelot was about to give up, he noticed another rider up on the hill above the cemetery. Cocking his head, he raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the storm.  When he realized who it was, he spat, an angry noise coming with it. “If he can ride in this, so can I.”

Turning Ras’ head toward the other rider, Lancelot kicked the horse into a canter, and made his way messily up the mud-encrusted hill.

*

Arthur sat still on his giant white stallion, and Lancelot was certain he couldn’t hear him over the sound of the rain – until Ras whinnied and both Arthur and his mount turned their heads. Lancelot cursed as Arthur’s horse moved unbidden toward them.  “What are you doing out here?” Lancelot bit off. “I thought you had meetings to deal with all day.”

Arthur shrugged; the motion making his light armor move up and down strangely on his shoulders. “I finished. I thought I’d take a look at the garrison from here. It’s been a while since I’ve been this high up.”

Lancelot’s eyes canted toward the cemetery and its pitiful, smoking mounds. He laughed darkly. “Why would you want to go any higher? You can’t get down in the mud as well from up here.”  Ras moved back and forth, and Lancelot clucked at him, his head suddenly aching.  _Arthur and his piety.  Gods.  Would he never let it go?_ He rubbed at his temples and closed his eyes briefly.   _Maybe I should._

Arthur’s face closed in. “Why must you speak like that?”

“Why must you always shoulder every burden?”

“Because it is my _duty_ ,” Arthur answered, his voice angry and tight. He turned his horse so it was nose to tail with Lancelot’s, and he grabbed Lancelot’s forearm in an annoyingly unbreakable grip.

Not that Lancelot couldn’t break it, really. He just chose to sit placidly, staring at Arthur through the rain, his brown eyes half-masted and his face passive.  “ _Why_ is it your duty, Arthur? Why don’t you share it with the rest of us? We are human. We can feel, the same as you. Even though we are ‘barbarians’,” Lancelot answered. He tried to remain calm, but it was rapidly becoming an act. He jerked his arm out of Arthur’s grasp, and slid off Ras’ back. He looped the horse’s reins over a tree limb, and waited until Arthur dismounted as well.

“I know you can. I know you do. And I hate that word,” Arthur replied, once he’d gotten off his white’s back and had moved to stand in front of Lancelot. Both men were dripping and had their cloaks up over their heads. Lancelot folded his arms and shivered, and squinted into the sky.  “Then why are we having this conversation? Why did we have it yesterday, and the day before, and the week before that, when I found you on your knees yet again in that place? I grow weary of you, Arthur. You seem to enjoy flagellation much more than I thought.”

Lancelot sighed roughly and shoved his hand through his hair, dislodging his hood. “I am so tired of this game we seem to be playing, Arthur. We have seven more years here. It will never get easier, and you will never bring any of the men back by your fervent wishing.”

That was it. Lancelot raised his eyes skyward again and shut them when the rain began to beat onto him in earnest.

_He will be the death of me. And gods damn me, but I cannot welcome it anymore._

“It is _not_ wishing,” Arthur said. His tone was hurt and low. “I pray for the sanctity of their souls, and tell God that I would gladly give anything to have them back. You are all my responsibility, and I – ”

“Shut up, Arthur. For the love of my sanity, just, please,” Lancelot interrupted. He opened his eyes, and took the few steps that separated them. “You ask me why I don’t welcome you to my bed enough," he said plainly.  "You mope and pick and loathe yourself when I do spend time with you. What would you have me do? You are driving me to madness.”

He met Arthur’s green eyes while Arthur seemed to fight for an answer. Lancelot waited, and his eyebrows rose when Arthur started to speak a few times, but couldn’t string together a sentence.

“Very well,” Lancelot said in resignation. Something in his chest twinged, and he had to _make_ himself turn from the other man.

“No, wait,” Arthur said desperately. Lancelot lowered his head, his chin resting on his chest. He stood still, and did as Arthur had bidden.

“I – I cannot change who and what I am,” Arthur said slowly. He came around Lancelot to stand in front of him, effectively blocking Lancelot’s way. “I don’t think you’d respect or like me if I did. But – if that is what it will take to make you welcome me into your presence again,” Arthur bit his lip. He hesitated.

Lancelot breathed out roughly, and reached for Arthur’s arms. He tugged the other man to him and pressed his mouth to Arthur’s. It was simple and direct and at the last, gentle.

Lancelot kissed Arthur again, and then backed away so he could see into Arthur’s eyes. “Don’t lie to me."  He shook Arthur once; held his arms in his hands, tightly.  He thought quickly of how Arthur might have hit any other man that had dared to touch him or shake him as Lancelot had, but Lancelot was - he licked dry lips and shook once more.    "Don't." 

Arthur made to speak, but then nodded.

“Come on,” Lancelot said, his hand rising briefly to cup at Arthur’s cheek, letting go of the commander's arms. He tugged his hood back up over his wet head, and got a hold of Ras’ reins and found Arthur’s mount's as well, handing them to the other man.  He began the slog back to the garrison, the ground slick with water and mud and Lancelot didn't slow or turn around.  He knew Arthur would be behind him.

*

The lightning cracked hard enough to wake Lancelot; he sat upright quickly and fumbled for the blade he kept under his pillows.  Of course, these were not his pillows, therefore there was no blade there.  Arthur was asleep next to him, his body tucked around itself, his long limbs and broad shoulders seeming to take up all the space available.  Lancelot stared down at him, working his mouth.   _I hate him._

He thought of the words he'd spoken earlier.  The possible truth of them.

_I don't._

_But I do._

Arthur shifted and Lancelot felt calloused fingers on his lower back. He turned his head to look at Arthur, who was awake and watching Lancelot with dark and unreadable eyes.

Lancelot got up out of Arthur’s bed, and moved to the open window, where the rain was still falling and the lightning still flashing. He felt Arthur’s shudder from the bed – he smirked once to himself – the other man _hated_ violent storms.

He stared out at the sky for a moment, and then looked back at Arthur again. Arthur was back to being curled up on his ass in the bed, his arms wound tightly around his knees, and his face lay on his wrists, as if he could spiral right into himself and disappear, despite his largess and his ... Lancelot shook his head.  His  _Arthur-ness._   There was nothing else to it.  

Lancelot breathed in the scent of the rain, and then shut the window.

~

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally in 2007. It's been fun to go through my old shit and reread it. I did try and edit this a bit; I've been thinking about my version of Lancelot and how he's not quite the way I now think Lancelot would be. He's a bit too flippant, or too quick to love Arthur with his whole heart, or something. I'm going to have to think about that some more, and see if I can't edit some other things to my current satisfaction.
> 
> Big ups to all the King Arthur fans still out there. xo


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